In some respects, it seems as if you left Earth a long time ago, and then other times, the wound can be made fresh, and something catches me off guard, and I am left with the same longing and loss as I was in the beginning.
Daniel, as you probably already know, last week your sister had an eye procedure, and had some complications, and so the past weekend I quickly ran her to the hospital where the on-call ophthalmologist had agreed to meet us. Since we live some distance away, and he was nearby, we proceeded to the hospital in a mad dash. When we arrived, the hospital was empty. There was no one to direct us, and I had not been in that part of the hospital in almost fifteen years. Your sister had both eyes closed, and so we couldn't move very quickly. Eventually, I borrowed a wheelchair, like a large adult stroller, which allowed us to move through this section of the old hospital with the ramps, and long corridors, a bit more easily. We had walked a long way when I passed the morgue, and then the Department of Pathology where I instantly recalled that your heart, brain and tissue samples had been kept there, in part because you became a teaching case, and in part so that someday when they can identify the calcium channelopathy they believe took your life so suddenly, they can identify exactly which sudden arrhythmic death syndrome variety you had, so that they may monitor your siblings, your nieces, your nephews, and cousins more correctly than is done now. Being in that part of the hospital with your sister in distress was upsetting. It is hard for me sometimes to have confidence that everything will be alright, because thirteen years ago, one morning, it wasn't, and things will never really be alright again. I stayed calm, backtracked, and finally found that we were exactly where we needed to be, only on the wrong floor. It didn't take long to get your sister to the ophthalmologist who was waiting, and we did so, only five minutes late. I will probably always associate that hospital with you, which I know is unfair. They have done so many wonderful things. They did a wonderful job when Christopher Reeve had his initial serious accident that caused his paralysis. They identified helicobacter pylori, and revolutionized the treatment of peptic ulcer disease, and some gastric cancers, worldwide. Your nephew was born here, and yet, my heart is stuck on their having done your autopsy, and for the school of nursing to having had a funeral for you and other children who died under the care of the hospital or in the area. They even gave you a funeral two years in a row !
I do know that you reside in Heaven, and that my Dad, your Papa Lawrence, is with you. I know that you befriend many children and young people who come to Heaven, perhaps without knowing anyone else who has died. I know that you happily work for God and find chances to enjoy the many wonders of where you are. I know that you take good care of the animals from this farm who completed their lives here, and then go on to find you. I also know that when days are dark, that you and my Dad find ways to pass encouragements to me, and I appreciate this.
This week, had you remained on Earth, you would be celebrating your 25th birthday. I can imagine you at 25 quite well. You would be about six foot three now, a little shorter than my father, but taller than your Dad and about the same height as your brother Matt. You would have broad shoulders and muscular arms. You would still have a broad smile, great insights, and an appreciation for great movies and books. You would still have your wonderful kind and creative spirit. I was always so proud of you, and I don't think you have forgotten.
Please know that despite the fact that I miss you very much, that I trust in our Lord God to have called you from Earth. Most of the time I do this with a fair measure of grace God has sent to me. (Cause I certainly can't manufacture it myself.) A number of bizarre things have happened here on Earth in the past couple of years, and at least in some ways, I have now a modicum of relief that you have escaped from some of Earth's strife. I love you and my Dad more than you know. Thank you for taking care of those precious animals for me until I get there. I hope you find a wonderful way to spend your birthday. I think I will spend it this year taking care of Cammie the alpaca, the last animal who remains here on Earth who knew you, and who also grieved your passing. I love you deeper than the oceans and wider than all the seas.
(I have enlarged the font for your friends who read this blog via Smartphone)
